


Obsessions

by aquaticsnails



Category: Garfield - All Media Types
Genre: An Absolutely Remarkable Thing - Freeform, Books, Bus, Childhood Trauma, Coffee, F/F, F/M, First Dates, Grocery Shopping, IKEA, IKEA Furniture, Ice Skating, Journalist, Language of Flowers, Leap of Faith, Mental Illness, My First AO3 Post, OCD, Obsession, POV First Person, Social Media, Stalking, Stranger - Freeform, WIP, cat!, garfield is in this tho i promise, hank green - Freeform, i cant make this too weird bc it is very much abt me and someone i know, new city, omg someones gonna die, platonic, please read this i think i am so funny for turning this into a garfield fic, runaways - Freeform, sorry - Freeform, this isnt actually a garfield fic i just think its funny
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28430289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquaticsnails/pseuds/aquaticsnails
Summary: I'd always been a bit obsessive in my interests. Things had been going fine in Asheville, really. I'd even made a few friends. So what, I became a little too interested in one friend in particular? Big deal. Social media has made stalking easier than ever. Besides, who cares if I know her social security number? I'm not, like, gonna use it for anything.Okay, maybe I need a change of scenery.In this fic, the protag goes on an adventure with the girl she's obsessed with and a stolen cat named Garfield. I'd tell you more, but I'm still trying to decide what happens next. So are they. :)
Kudos: 1





	1. Asheville

**Author's Note:**

> My first work!!! Please be nice I haven't written fiction since I was 12! Ok basically I was bored and writing a dramatic story abt me and this girl im lowkey obsessed w and I'd named the guy Jon and was trying to decide if there was any fandom this was applicable to bc Im bored in quarantine. I hope you enjoy it!! Itll probably stay PG13 for a while at least bc I fully plan on reading excerpts at my schools creative writing club.

The cobblestoned paths became slippery beneath my boots as snow began to float down in the darkness. Any other time, any other place, snow never ceased to thrill me, but that night, I barely noticed. Even the harsh cold couldn’t catch my attention; hot tears warmed my cheeks.

Turns out they were right about me. I’d thought I’d long since overcame their dismal predictions, the incessant reiteration that I’d never be anyone of significance. When my first book sold, when I was offered a position as a journalist in Asheville, North Carolina, hours away from the desolate town I’d left behind, it seemed they’d finally been proven wrong. I walked faster. They were right. I was nothing but an idiot.

In an attempt to make friends in my new city, I’d signed up for an evening painting class. I was no good with art, and had no great expectations for technical improvement, but the classmates did not disappoint. There, I met Jon, a quirky guy about my age. I described my perilous loneliness, and he invited me for drinks with his girlfriend. She was, by all convention, rather cold. Though probably very intelligent, she was standoffish and wary of my company (which sharply contrasted with Jon’s relentless cheeriness). 

As I spent more time with them, neither of their demeanors changed. Things could’ve carried on like this, mundane and pleasant, until one evening, when Jon had game night with the boys. Though it seemed very clear she didn’t like me, or anyone, for that matter, I went to her apartment. I was greeted by her fluffy orange cat, who I pet as she poured us drinks. As we stood in her kitchen, I accidentally dropped my wine glass. A small offense, but one I’d made before, whose consequences I feared. I apologized profusely as we cleaned up the glass, and afterwards (recalling a twitter thread I’d seen advising to show gratitude rather than apologize), I thanked her for not yelling. For just a second, it was clear we had something about our seldom-discussed pasts in common, and her face softened. We talked for another moment, about trivial mistakes and wrathful caretakers, before I headed home. Unfortunately, my brain isn’t wired correctly, and on the elevator, no peaceful thoughts of friendship appeared. Rather, I had a new obsession.

They did attribute one skill to me: I was always good at burning my bridges. My throat tightened. I pulled the lighter out of my hoodie pocket, then tossed it in a gutter.

I hadn’t bothered to look her up before, but she used the same username for all of her social medias (silly girl!) and I was quickly able to find tons of information. How lucky was I that my new hobby was emo in 2014 when blogspot was cool, and had essentially posted her diary online! The information was outdated, but offered some insights to the childhood traumas we were working with here. More recent posts on Twitter and Facebook proved most of my predictions regarding political orientations, interests, and sense of humor to be accurate, which I took as proof that I understood how her brain worked. A lofty assumption? Yes, but reasonable people wouldn’t’ve gotten to this point.

One thing worth noting is this was not done out of lust or even romantic intentions, per say. I never even considered Jon (or getting rid of him), and had no real goal behind my research. Hobbies are healthy, I stand by that. But, if I had to offer an explanation, there is comfort in knowing someone understands you. She knew nothing about me, but we thought the same way.

I arrived at the bus station, its white light blurred by tears. The bench was too cold to sit on, so I stood, rigid, then checked the time. 11:58. Just a moment more.

I’d been planning to leave town for a while; my obsession, in addition to being objectively problematic, was seriously slashing my productivity. A friend from summer camp, a decade ago, had heard what I’d been up to and offered me a gig reviewing novels in Boston. It sounded like a dream, and I wanted a way out of Asheville anyhow. I hadn’t planned on going to her apartment that night. I’ll admit, I’d lost my meds a few days prior, and was somewhat maniacal in my thought process; the offer had been a sign from the universe, yes, but i didn’t need to get away from her. Instead, this was my Hail Mary. Still, if my demeanor was affected, she didn’t notice when I arrived on her doorstep. Instead, we stepped out on her porch. I lit both our cigarettes.

She began to ramble about her day, about how her wifi had been too slow. She began to list the possible reasons for this: the cold weather, problems with the server, maybe aliens. I couldn’t take it anymore. “Come with me!” I blurted. “To Boston. I’m leaving tonight, for good. Look, I’m not gonna lie, I…,” I told her everything. Rule 1 of stalking: do not tell the subject you’ve been stalking them! I doubt my promise that it “wasn’t, like, done with creepy motives” was any consolation. 

After I was done spilling my guts, she put out her cigarette on the banister, and tossed the filter to the street below. “Yeah… yeah. You’re right. You should go to Boston.” Her voice was steady, her eyes, glassy. She didn’t say anything else, and after a moment of silence, I left.

I stepped on the bus, and collapsed into a vinyl seat on the 3rd row. The doors began to close, only to be thrown open a second later. It was her. She handed some cash to the driver, and slid into the seat next to me. “Look. You’re a total creep, and there’s gonna be some boundaries, but I’m bored, and I’m coming with you.” I grinned.


	2. Bus Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After sleeping for a bit, it's time to sort out some logistics.

My certainty in my understanding of her wavered as the bus trekked along the icy roads. She didn’t strike me as impulsive, and why would she leave… “Hey, what about Jon?”

She sighed, looking down at her worn out jeans. “I left him a voicemail. I feel kinda bad about it, poor guy’s got a heart of glass, always has. But he’ll be fine. There are plenty of women who’d kill to have someone like him.” I didn’t press the matter further; Jon was undeniably wonderful, and even I felt a twinge of guilt.

Though there were a million things we should’ve discussed on that ride, neither of us felt much like talking. I rested my head against the shaky window, watching blurry street lights fly past. 

In hindsight, this was all a huge mistake. First of all, the logistics made absolutely no sense. I was a writer, for Christ’s sake, not really making the big bucks. I still wasn’t entirely sure what she did for a job, though her apartment had been classy enough. I had a couple hundred dollars saved for a couple nights in a hotel while I figured everything out, but beyond that, I was at a loss for what to do. 

Additionally, it’s not like this was the first time I’d become a little too interested in a near stranger. I’d had this habit since I was 10, when the red-haired star of our school production of Annie had piqued my interest. Anyway, my fascination always fizzled out once I got to know the POI, and I was left with a friend. Like I said, hobbies are good and productive. However, it’s rather boring, being around someone who you already know everything about, and I knew my interest in her wouldn’t last. Then what? I leave again and she wishes she could go back to this night and stay with Jon? If there’s anything I resent, it’s being disliked, and I couldn’t imagine an outcome to this where I’m painted in a good light. 

I was so busy fretting over the inevitable fallout that I didn’t notice her purse moving. She whispered into it, pensively, and I laughed. “You did not bring the cat,” I exclaimed, and she glared at me defensively. Though she all but detested humans, she did love animals. “What else was I supposed to do with him? Give him to Jon? He always gave the cat coffee, which can’t be healthy.” Finally, she smiled, and I reached over to scratch the cat’s chin. That’s one more problem for the list: find a ~pet friendly~ hotel. 

....

In my hasty departure, I hadn’t bothered checking how long the bus ride actually was, so it seemed we had plenty of time to discuss the details of our adventure. 31 hours of it, even. First, though, sleeping was imperative.

I awoke with a killer headache, disoriented. I checked my watch: 8:45 a.m.. She was already awake, reading some fantasy book, with the cat (wrapped in a sweater-- wait, that’s mine) curled on her lap. “Good morning,” I grumbled. She didn’t reply, she’d never been one for pleasantries. My routine “hey, how are you doing?”s were always met with a brisk, cavalier “fine.” 

The sunlight was blinding, and everything hurt. I groaned, and looked out the window just in time to see the gas station we were pulling into. Thank god. Wordlessly, we all shuffled off the bus. After a bathroom trip, I went to get myself the one thing that could make this seem okay: coffee. I considered getting her one, too, but decided “how she liked her coffee” (one cream, no sugar) was on the list of things I probably shouldn’t mention I know. I bought a Pop Tart too, then clamoured back onto the bus. The cat was peeking out of the bag, and I scooped him up, then hugged him close. He purred enthusiastically. At least someone on this bus liked me.

She came back and sat down, grumpily peeling a banana. “Does this cat have a name?” I asked. She frequently posted about him, but never used a name. “Jon always called him Garfield. I like to call him Gary.” “Mr. Gary!” I cried, lifting the cat into the air. 

Mr. Gary settled back into the purse, and I pulled out my laptop. Despite her dismal attitude, I was determined to get organized. After connecting to the wifi, I started looking for places to stay.

“If you don't mind me asking,” I said, “what is our financial situation?”

Whatever vibrancy and pizzazz inspired her to get on this bus was clearly long gone. “I’ll pay half of whatever.” I was relieved; that certainly lessened my monetary concerns. I continued typing away, and managed to book a pet-friendly hotel room for the next two nights (“We could just do any hotel. Gary is quiet,” she suggested. I silently dismissed this. The last thing we needed right now was more variables). I even found a couple attractive, two bedroom apartments, though I wanted to see them in person before commiting. In regards to food, I loved rice and beans, and I knew she would tolerate the thrifty meal if necessary. Could cats eat beans? Google says yes, but only as a snack. 

I checked my email, and saw my friend from camp, Raven, had sent me my first book list: The Immortalists, Chloe Benjamin; The Secret History, Donna Tartt; This is How You Lose the Time War, multiple authors. I was excited! As a lifelong reader, this job was perfect. I’d already read The Secret History as a broody teenager, but I adored the idea of rereading it while sipping an espresso at a rooftop cafe. Did Boston have rooftop cafes? Google said no, but there were rooftop bars. I could swap my espresso for a Manhattan, if I had to. Now more interested in what was ahead as opposed to who was next to me, I romanticized the days to come. The Boston Museum of FIne Arts! The expansive bookstores! Swan boats, public gardens! 

21 hours until a new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I dont know whats happening :)


	3. Apartment Hunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're finally in Boston! Time to find a place and decorate it. So why's she being so quiet?

We got off the bus half past 9. We still hadn’t spoken much; I knew everything about her, and she didn’t seem particularly interested in knowing me, so there wasn’t much to be said. We maintained polite silence as I hailed a taxi from the bus stop and we headed to our hotel, a Hampton Inn. I took a risk on her confidence in Gary’s discretion, and didn’t pay the pet fee, knowing if we did get caught, the only consequence would be a couple hundred bucks as opposed to our removal. We had a single room with, thankfully, two beds. As I’ve stated before, I had no intentions of romance, and didn’t need the added tension. The room was picturesque enough, with a coffee bar and a canvas print of a cappuccino. My kind of establishment. I lept for the window bed, and she didn’t object, then I collapsed in the leather office chair and pulled out my laptop.

Finally, she spoke. “Boston seems alright. Maybe this wasn’t a total mistake,” she said, lacking enthusiasm. “Yep. Unfortunately, pricey, too. Let’s say, max budget, 2k a month?” I suggested. I could make that work, and assuming she could too, that gave us options. “That’s alright by me.” The search engine returned several feasible options, the best of which, a studio on the West End. She was reclining on the bed, still reading her book (it had to be at least 800 pages) and I went and sat down next to her. “How’s this?”

Two hours later, we were standing in the loft. She seemed, as per usual, unimpressed, but I quite liked the space. Hardwood floors, a nice enough kitchen, and the back wall was all window, spare a door out to the terrace. There was also air conditioning, a must-have, and a pool, gym, and grilling area. The location was perfect. I smiled at the agent, and, ignoring my companion’s apathy, enthusiastically asked when we could move in. “It can be ready for move in as soon as the 28th,” replied the similarly cheery agent. Leases were signed, deposits were made, and I insisted we go out for a celebratory coffee. 

There was a Dunkin Donuts just across the street, and I couldn't resist their vanilla iced coffee, but for tourism’s sake, we went to the local shop just down the road. As we sat, wrapped in our coats and clutching our drinks to protect from the January cold, I continued to research. I’d be making about fifteen hundred a week, and the journal I was working for had given me 5k for moving fees, which meant it was time to decorate. While my portraiture and landscapes are far from prodigal, I’d liked a color theory lesson I’d had back in school, and had an affinity for IKEA and its pristine scandinavian collections. She was still grumpier than usual, and when I asked if she had input on our decor, she dismissed me. I’d have to figure out what was up with her later, but for now, I was busy.

I was planning to hold her to her “half of whatever” commitment, giving me quite the budget. With unprecedented liberty, I decided we’d go with black and white furniture with accents in the details, Two queen sized MALMs in black with storage drawers, two HAUGESONs to sleep on. “What’s your favorite color?” “Blue.” Paint-printed ALPDRABAs, blue for her, pink for me to sleep under. SLANs for our heads. A KIVIK in black for sitting, a NYBODA in white for resting my coffee on. I picked out some paint-wash curtains and accent pillows, tacked on floor lamps, appliances, fake plants, wall art, and a TV, figured out the taxes and fees, then proudly showed her the surprisingly under-budget total. Without inquiring what, exactly, we were purchasing, she venmoed me half. I placed the order to be delivered to our new address on the 27th.

I knew basically everything about her, from what elementary school she’d gone to, her mother’s maiden name, how she’d played soccer in high school, but there were three concerning gaps in my knowledge: why she was so grumpy today (the iciness was normal, but financial carelessness was unlike her), why she’d come with me anyway (I’d expected her to be far more level-headed), and, most upsettingly, what she did for a job. I’d found Wattpad and Reddit accounts, records from her college, her credit score, but not a LinkedIn or pay stub existed. Still, at the time I wasn’t too unnerved. I’d be living with her; answers would come in time.

She was evidently in no mood for the touristy things I wanted to do (the Boston MFA sounded awesome, and there were walking trails right next to our place), so I decided to be content with my coffee and new purchases. There would be time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok I think I have a direction for the story. Im gonna have to define her more but I'll leave her nameless. As for the narrator, too bad, you get to know nothing other than she is borderline obsessed with coffee. I think ive used that word to describe her before tho lol poggers


	4. Hair Dye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We head back to the hotel. She's finally talking to me!

I ordered a tuna salad sandwich for Mr. Gary before we left the shop. The barista, a cute guy with dark eyes, smiled at me as he handed me the bag. “I hate seafood,” he complained, making a face. “Me too. It’s for Gary,” i replied empathically, forgetting that the world did not, in fact, revolve around me. “Your boyfriend?” Was that disappointment on his face? “Nah. My cat. Short for Garfield.” The barista chuckled. “Don’t forget napkins! Cats can be messy!” he added, handing me a stack. I smiled, and as I turned to leave, I noticed a phone number scribbled on one. I tucked it into my jacket pocket as I shuffled out the door.  
She still wouldn’t talk as we walked back to the hotel. It was a good 4 miles or so. But despite the chill in the air, it was a beautiful day. I watched college students with trendy backpacks rocket past us on skateboards, and happily reflected on the culture I would soon be immersed in. Asheville was trendy too, overrun with hipsters, but the schools in Boston added a layer of pursuit to the youthful atmosphere.   
The walk was about an hour, and it felt nice to stretch my legs. I finally decided to engage. “What’s on your mind?” I questioned. She kept her gaze fixed on the sidewalk as she replied, “Um. I guess I want to dye my hair again.” Not exactly the insightful answer I’d been hoping for, but more inspired than anything else she’d said over the past few days. I tried to hide my disappointment; I liked her navy hair. “That’s cool! Change can be good-- well, obviously. What I mean is, new city, new look. Very nice.” She laughed a bit (wow! Emotion!) and said, “Don’t worry. Nothing boring. I’m thinking lavender.” “Oh, perfect! It’ll match our apartment’s decor!” I chirped. She finally seemed to lighten up a bit. “Yeah, when we get back to the hotel, I wanna see what you ordered. Make sure it’s tolerable. What’s the return policy?” She finally looked over at me, smirking. I elbowed her side. “Hey! My taste is impeccable. I’ll have you know I’ve watched a ton of interior design shows on Netflix,” I giggled. “Yeah, well, so have I. You probably already know that, though. Probably got my Netflix password.” The mention of my espionage darkened the mood. She was right, though. “GaryTheCat1” wasn’t hard to guess. Yikes.  
As we passed a drug store, I grabbed her hand and pulled her inside. “I hope you weren’t planning on getting it done professionally! And this way, we won’t stain the sinks in our new apartment!” We hurried around the aisles until we found the hair dye, picking up bags of candy and tortilla chips for snacks. After finding an indubiously untrustworthy box that promised “precise lavender color with shine, permanent,” we carried our things to the front. I pulled out the last of my cash, and the supplies were ours. Half an hour later, I gnawed on a twizzler while reading the instructions as she wrapped a towel around her shoulders. “I have no choice but to trust you. You know all of my bank security question’s answers. Might as well trust you with my hair,” she’d deadpanned. Thank god the towels were gray.  
The hair dying process was perilous; I hadn’t done mine since high school, when it was neon pink for a summer. Somehow, though, we got it done. When I finished blow drying it, I brushed it out of her face, then smiled at my handiwork. The soft purple complimented her light, silver eyes and pale skin. “You look like a ghost,” I teased. She playfully kicked my shin.   
I looked back into the room, out the window, and saw the sun setting. “Oh! The decor!” I excitedly pulled up my purchase history, and she tried to hide her approval. “That is acceptable.” “Glad you think so. The fake plants will do for now, but I’m thinking for the terrace, we go all out on the flora and fauna.” An herb garden would be nice.  
She nodded, not questioning my reasoning. She really didn’t question much about me, which was completely fine. I much preferred looking out to looking in: if I were to ever write a book, I’d like my biography to be simple: “The author of this work had a less than idyllic childhood. Little else is known about her, except that she likes coffee and hates the color fluorescent yellow.” A perfect synopsis.   
She inspected her hair in the mirror and I went back to my bed. It was too early to go to dinner, though there was a neat looking diner across the street. I examined my books, and decided to begin with The Immortalists. Hello, dream job.


	5. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We make some friends!

The next couple days passed like a mirage. Whatever had been bothering her so much seemed to have passed, and she was more cheerful than usual, despite maintaining her curt way of speaking. Still, I convinced her to poke around the city with me. After two days of adventuring, it was finally time to move in! I woke up at 7, eager to get out of the door. She was drinking coffee, and Mr. Gary was munching on chips. I hurried to the Keurig to make myself a cup, then we began packing.

She was right, Mr. Gary had caused no drama (have you ever met a cat who used the toilet? Gary is truly a fascinating specimen). We put him in her bag, then headed out the door. When we arrived at our new building, the key was waiting under the mat as promised. Sunlight poured into the room, making the shiny floors glow. Our furniture arrived midday, and, after a good bit of anguish and several arguments over how to assemble our MLAMs (“Just because my degree is in liberal arts doesn’t mean I can’t do basic geometry, I protested as she took my half-built drawer away from me. Her degree was in world languages, also humanities, but I disregarded this for the sake of spite), we had a home. Night had fallen by then, and we laid on the bed exhausted when there was a knock on the door.

I forced myself up and answered. A girl with long black hair and bright green eyeshadow stood at our doorstep. Her voice was deep, but welcoming. ”Hey! My roommate said you guys just moved in today. Gosh, she should’ve helped you move your things! I told her that. Anyway, I picked up dinner from the bistro, and brought you some soups and whatever. I’m Dakota, by the way.” Okay, she was awesome. I ushered her into our apartment, and she out down the paper bag of food on the kitchen counter. 

I introduced the both of us, and told her we’d just come from Asheville. “Aw, are you partners?” Dakota asked innocently. She, having still not gotten out of bed, scoffed. I smiled apologetically. “Nah, just friends,” I explained. Dakota smiled. “Well, your place is awesome! I dig the vibe. Boston’s pretty rad, I think you’ll like it here.” I nodded, and recounted our adventures in the city. “Oh, nice! I love the MFA too.”  
Much to my roommate’s dissatisfaction, I invited Dakota to stay and eat dinner with us. “Sorry about her. Not the friendliest bird in the box,” I offered. Dakota laughed, unpacking several styrofoam cups, sandwiches in checkered paper, and cookies. “Do you guys have any dishes yet?” she asked, opening the cupboards. Crap, I knew I’d forgotten something. “I’m working on it,” I laughed. “No worries. I’ll run back to my place and get some drinks.”

After Dakota left, I turned to her. “Hey, I get you’re tired, but Dakota’s sweet. Are you upset because she thought we were together?” This irked me; I knew, despite her obsession with religion, she always voted blue. “Hell, no. I just don’t want another you around, no offense. Too friendly. That’s actually what that name means, you know.” I threw back her covers and stole Mr. Gary into my arms in protest. “Haters don’t get snuggles,” I advised, kissing Mr. Gary’s head. He meowed, delighted.

Our door burst open. “Look who I found!” cried Dakota, a case of beers in one hand, a forearm in her other. A disgruntled girl in a hoodie and pajama pants shuffled in after her, brushing short hair out of her eyes. “I was asleep!” protested the newcomer. “Here are our new neighbors, be social, please. This is Jessie Wu, hater of leaving bed.” Jessie’s frustration softened when she saw the cat, and I handed him over.  
My roommate was much fonder of Jessie, as they shared a dislike for the current situation. I noted I ought to order more seating arrangements, as the KIVIK wasn’t gonna cut it. We sat on the floor by the windows to have our meal. Fortunately for the rest of us, Dakota did most of the talking. Jessie and my roommate were not eager to talk, and I had little to tell about myself except my journalism. Dakota explained that she and Jessie went to Tufts, for theater and veterinary school respectively. This intrigued me; I’d applied there, but withdrawn my application after getting accepted ED elsewhere. 

Eventually, Jessie went back to their place to get Cards Against Humanity, and merriment ensued. I was the clear winner, though Dakota tried to overturn this, declaring I had an unfair advantage due to my familiarity with words. Finally, at 2 in the morning, Jessie announced she couldn’t possibly stay up later, and they left.

I brushed my teeth as she stepped out for a cigarette. Minutes later, I joined her on the terrace. “Want one?” she offered, but I shook my head. “No, thanks, last time I smoked on a balcony with you, it didn’t go well.” “Fair enough,” she sighed, flicking away the ash. “Look at us go, making friends!” I chirped. She just nodded, before tossing the rest into a trashcan. Wordlessly, she went inside, then turned out the lights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hhnhg i am struggling with describing the races of ppl but Dakota is Native American and Jessie is Chinese um she is white and protag is unspecified its a self insert its ur race


	6. Laundry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I make bad choices sometimes.

Things went on as smoothly as they could. Dakota and I went to Target, and got dishes and cutlery, and I ordered new armchairs and patio furniture. Most mornings, I sat on the balcony, wrapped in blankets, reading and writing. I still was trying to figure out what she did for work; she’d leave at odd hours, offering no explanation. I told myself I didn't mind this; she sometimes bought groceries, and was a clean housemate. Besides, if I was lonely, I could always swing by Dakota’s chronically messy apartment. She and Jessie both came from wealthy families, and, being a senior, she’d already gotten most of her credits, so she was always available. We became expert bakers, crafting all sorts of pastries, and we found a podcast about space to listen to as we kneaded sourdough. I’d often bring Mr. Gary, who’d happily taste test the product, and dozed in Jessie’s stray sweatshirts. Their apartment had two bedrooms, so Jessie was always either in class or in her bed, only occasionally stopping to chat. 

Despite this, my roommate still lingered in my thoughts, passing daydreams of mutual interest. I always brought her a sample of our confections, leaving them on her bedside table. It broke my heart when, instead of a smile, in return she left a couple dollars on my table. The tarts and cookies weren’t meant as a transactionary action; they were just presents. I wasn’t interested in hooking up or dating or anything, but I can’t say I wasn’t in love with her. My dreams often found us sitting on the couch, my head on her shoulder, her arm around me.

Someone told me my mother loved me, sure. Addiction is a disease, she acknowledged, but my aunt always insisted that beneath the drugs, there was a woman who would die for me. I don’t pretend to understand how driving her car off a bridge was for me. 

I’d originally underestimated the age disparity between myself and her and Jon; they were both 4 or 5 years my senior, older enough to seem authoritative, young enough to become my friends. That day with the broken wine glass lingered, the validation remembered.  
I just wanted her to care about me. 

I took my laundry down to the basement one evening and found Jessie, sitting on the washing machine, drinking straight vodka and staring at the floor. We had next to nothing in common, except, as her face revealed, how we were feeling. I hopped up onto the one next to her. Neither of us spoke, but she passed me the bottle. I took as long a sip as I could bear before handing it back. “I see the way you look at Dakota,” I mumbled. “Yeah, I guess your roommate isn’t as friendly as you’d like, either, huh?” We looked at eachother. Her dark brown eyes were glassy with tears. My stomach burned from the alcohol as my eyes fell to her lips. She leaned over and kissed me.

I woke up the next morning in Jessie’s bed. She was still asleep, and I panicked over what to do: go back to sleep? Leave? Wait? As I pulled my sweater back on, my dilemma was solved as her eyes opened. “Um, good morning,” I said. She blinked, then glanced at me. “Hello. Can we pretend that didn’t happen? I don’t mean that to be rude, I’m sure you’re great, but I’m not… looking for anything serious.” Fine by me. “Yeah. Um, are you okay? Like, emotionally? I’m here if you need to, like, talk about anything.” For a writer, I was floundering spectacularly, but I wasn’t sure how to act in this situation; truthfully, I barely knew Jessie. She dismissed me, and, knowing Dakota never woke up before 9, I hurried out the door. 

I went downstairs and grabbed my laundry, which is innately an evening task, before going back to my room. She, of course, was awake. “Good morning, sunshine!” I said with false brightness that she didn’t care about in the least. She didn’t look up from her computer. I showered, dressed, and pulled on the jacket I’d worm on our first day here. I left without saying goodbye: a difficult feat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its 330 am sorry this sux


	7. Coffee or Liqour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I go back to the cafe, where Dante is waiting. Then, my friends and I go out.

I stepped into the cafe and hurried to the counter. It was the same barista; his face fell. “You never called.” Oh my god, I’d forgotten!

I crouched behind the counter, found the napkin still in my pocket, and dialed the number. When he answered, I said, “Hello, we have been trying to reach you about your vehicle’s warranty--.” He laughed and hung up. “Give me another chance?” I pleaded, sheepishly. “I swear I meant to text. I just moved here, and am barely functional.” He brushed back his black curls, sighing. “Only if you promise not to go scouting out any other cafes, alright, tourist?” I grinned, nodding in affirmation. “No one can make a brioche as good as mine. I guarantee it.”

“Give me your finest loaf and I’ll consider it. And two mochas, please,” I requested. “Please tell me one’s not for Garfield,” he replied. “That cat does like his caffeine, and it is Monday, but no. It’s for my gremlin of a roommate. She won’t talk to me right now, so maybe some coffee will warm her up.” “Ah, the girl with the blue hair?” “It’s purple now, but, yes. She’s… peculiar.” He pressed a button on the coffee maker, then put the bread in a paper bag. “Sounds delightful. Well, I hope you have a nice breakfast. Oh, and before you go, I have your number, but I’m gonna need more info for a contact,” he said, waving his phone. I introduced myself, and he shook my hand. “Nice to meet you, then. That’s a lovely name. I’m Dante.” We took goofy pictures of each other, then I paid, noticing he’d only charged me for one mocha. “Yours is on the house. It’s the left one. Nothing different about it, except it’s on the left, and free.” I raised a humorous eyebrow, thanked him, and stepped back outside. 

“Coffee shop boy Dante has provided our breakfast,” I announced, putting down the treats on the coffee table. “Come eat with me. You’re boring,” I complained. To my surprise, she didn’t object, and I found a knife, raspberry jam and plates. She looked at me accusingly. “Where were you last night?” she grumbled, and I was flattered that my absence was noted. “Got drunk and passed out with Dakota watching Netflix. Sorry,” I said unapologetically. She bit into a slice, then said, “Whatever. You got a package.” My new books! The journal had loved my reviews, which had been heavily colored by my yearning. “Oh, rad! If you’re ever short on reading, I get to keep the books I review. We gotta get a bookshelf!” “Thanks, but I prefer fantasy. This universe sucks.” “Hey, The Immortalists has magic, and This is How You Lose the Time War sure as hell doesn’t take place in this dimension!” She ignored my insistence, sipping her mocha. 

This was going nowhere. “Are you busy tonight? Let’s go out,” I suggested. “It’ll be fun. We can get Dakota and Jessie to come. You seem like you need to get out.” Reluctantly, she agreed. I grabbed my notebook, noting the plans. The reappearance of the leather-bound journal caught her attention.

“Why me?”

The question carried suspicion, fear, even, but I didn’t recognize it as such at the time. I mulled it over for a moment before saying plainly, “I like obsessing. I like a challenge. There’s a reason the way you are the way you are. I want to know what it is.” This unnerved her, but I foolishly dismissed it as common bashfulness. I’d had in mind a certain Tumblr post of hers, an aggressively 2014 ode to depression, similar to things I’d once posted. Despite her spiky exterior, I figured she just wanted affection.

I went to the park to read, staying until the late afternoon. As a purple haze clouded the sky, I went back to Dakota and Jessie’s place. Dakota was flipping through a fashion magazine, and Jessie was studying. After I convinced them to go out with us later, Dakota began rambling about her improv teacher, and Jessie went to her room for some quiet. I was relieved; I didn’t want to upset her, but I’d been dying to tell someone about Dante.

“Okay, no way he’s better at baking than us,” Dakota complained. She wasn’t much of a coffee drinker, but she’d stopped by the cafe a couple times for lunch, and knew who I was talking about. “He does seem really cool, though. If I remember correctly, he graduated from Boston College a couple years ago, but decided to become a barista, of all things. Like, dude, bartending sounds way more fun if you’re going into the service industry.” I shrugged, and asked her if she had anyone special. “Hell no. I’m married to my art,” she declared, tossing a hand over her forehead. 

Eventually, I went back home to get ready. 22 wasn’t too old for glittery eyeshadow, right? She was putting on eyeliner in the mirror when she asked where we were going. “Not sure. Jessie knows a place.” I had a hunch she’d been spending a fair amount of time with Jessie, which would explain Jessie’s insights regarding my feelings about her. God, I hoped she wasn’t telling Jessie what a creep I was.

The four of us headed out, and soon we stood in front of a bar lit by edison bulbs on strings. We stepped inside, and the comforting ambiance washed over me. A band stood in the corner, strumming on guitars. Dakota went to get us drinks, and, seeing as my roommate was busy staring at the ceiling, I turned to Jessie. “This place is awesome. It’s where I met Dakota, actually. Some jerk was hitting on me, and she pretended she was my ride home. Said she’d seen him lurking around. She always says she can see the worst in people, just by looking at them.” I smiled, wondering if they knew who I really was. Jessie’s ominous statement was cut off by Dakota, returning with margaritas in hand. She cackled enthusiastically, and my worries about her resenting me vanished. She was magnetic.

Dakota and I went to dance, and my roommate and Jessie stepped outside to smoke. After half a dozen songs, Dakota disappeared, and I wandered out to the patio. Jessie stood on the curb, alone, shouting into her phone. “No, look. I’m not talking about this right now! I’m fine! Stop calling me!” She shoved the phone into her pocket, and kicked a pebble into the street. I considered approaching her, but thought better of it. 

I found Dakota at the bar, laughing with a group of girls. She spotted me, screeched, and urged me to come introduce myself. I didn’t bother remembering any of their names, but doled out compliments to each of the drunken college students. “Hey, and here’s your friend!” she cried, as arms wrapped around my shoulders. “Hey. Thanks for giving me a way out,” she mumbled, with unusual softness in her voice.

We got home well past midnight, and though I’d struggled to get the key in the door, I was still aware enough to recognize the bizarreness of the comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im trying to decide if im knowledgeable enough to do the subplot abt jessie uhg


	8. Skating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I go on a date!

I woke up to a headache, a cat on my stomach, and a text from Dante. I fed Mr. Gary, then opened the message. “Hey! Wanna go ice skating?” I scrambled for the ibuprofen, then replied, “ofc!! When?” He texted back almost instantly. “Meet me at the memorial rink at noon?” “Awesome!” I replied, before making myself some toast. Mr. Gary meowed indignantly, and I noticed her bed was empty. 

Why should I care, anyway? I didn’t even have all that much in common with her. My interest was in the manipulation of the english language; she preferred every other one. Half her tweets were in Korean, and, revealed by my pedantic translating, were usually just about celebrities in other countries.

Her father had been in the army, and she’d moved a lot. Perhaps that's why she was so guarded. I figured the only consistency in her upbringing was instability, hence her peculiar moral code. She had no problem with deception, nor impoliteness, yet at moments, she was more patient and kinder than most, and was brutally honest when explanations were unavoidable. She had no problem with stepping on a mouse, but she protected Gary at all costs. 

I started pulling out my journal to review, but stopped myself. No. Today I was going to go ice skating with a cute guy and stop thinking about the enigma that slept beside me. I’d had lovely relationships ruined by my little habit before. Not this time. 

I flipped through my paperback copy of We Are the Ants. I’d finished reading it in the park the day before, but wasn’t sure where to start my review. The protagonist had made the only satisfactory choice: inaction. To let the opportunity for salvation pass, indifferent. I pushed the thoughts of her aside, and began typing out a statement about how uncertainty was necessary for genuine growth.

When I reached the rink, Dante stood with a bouquet of daisies. “They symbolize new beginnings,” he explained, beaming. “A baker and a flower connoisseur? Where on earth did you come from?” I laughed, hugging him and accepting the arrangement. “Santa Fe. Lovely city, really. That being said, you’ll have to forgive me for my lackluster ice abilities.” I smiled, and we went to rent skates.

Dante may not have been professional grade, but he was better at skating than me. As I slid around ungracefully, he glided next to me. “You just gotta have confidence,” he insisted. “Don’t second-guess yourself, just keep going.” Soon enough, I’d mastered the art of going in a moderately slow loop. Fascinating! 

After we returned our skates, we headed back to the cafe for cocoa. Sunlight poured through the oak trees, illuminating his tight curls. As we walked, we talked about a favorite subject of mine: books. “Okay, top three novels of all time. Go,” I quizzed. “Huh. Okay… number three: Fahrenheit 451, two is 1984, and one… don’t judge me, Miss Librarian, but it’s a tie between Hank Green’s books. I love sci fi. I don’t care that they’re YA.” I gasped. “No way. I love Hank Green! Those books are incredible!” “Oh my god, yes! The dream thing was genius. Which book is your favorite?” “Well, I think A Beautifully Foolish Endeavor had the better character arcs for sure, but, I can’t lie, the first one’s the best.” “Agreed!” We laughed, the dry grass crunching beneath our boots. 

Dante’s coworker poured our drinks, and we chose metal stools next to the windows. Dante leaned over and whispered, “The best part of the job is the people watching.” I covertly glanced at the table next to us, where two young girls idly stirred their iced teas. “And get this -- he got them both pregnant!” shrieked one of them. The next table over, an old man sat hunched over a computer, mumbling to himself. The screen’s reflection was visible on his glasses: a zoomed in photo of Pikachu. I smiled at Dante. “I appreciate some good naturalistic observation,” I noted, gesturing out the window to a yorkie chewing on a roller skate. 

I thought back to the first time I saw her. She’d picked up Jon from painting class. As he bid me goodbye, I noticed her in the driver’s seat of a beat up turquoise truck, looking at her reflection in the sunshield. She wasn’t conventionally attractive, with a narrow face and hooded eyes, wearing a sulky expression, but I couldn’t look away. No, stop it! Dante. Dante never seemed sulky; his eyes were wide and welcoming, his features rounded, his perfect skin the exact same color as her coffee order… “Two hot chocolates.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is the thing abt his skin being the color of her coffee order offensive?? i cant think of a reason why it would b but i saw some thing saying dont describe ur poc characters w ish like chocolate colored but i think in this context its different bc its a very specific shade and also abt her


	9. Skating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date with Dante and a chat with Dakota.

She still wasn’t there when I got home. I put the flowers in a mason jar, then set it on the coffee table before flopping on my bed and texting Dakota, “Back from my date.” Seconds later, she burst through the door. “Tell me everything!” she exclaimed, lying down next to me.

I recounted the highlights of the afternoon, and Dakota pressed for the details. After a few minutes of this, Mr. Gary came to investigate. He stole the show like always, and I swung him around in the air. 

“So, how’s your day been?” I asked, kissing Gary. Dakota sighed. ”Not good. For one thing, I had a class this morning, and the guy I sit next to is the worst. Like, come on, dude, slamming Hamilton fans isn’t a personality trait. Also, Jessie was totally freaking out.” I thought back to the phone call. “What about?” “I don’t know. Her brother keeps calling. She won’t tell me what’s wrong,” she complained. “She’s normally so chill. I hate seeing her upset.” I remembered about the basement, thinking, I know one way you could cheer her up. “Anyway, Valentines’ is tomorrow, and I brought you two tickets for our Lover’s Showcase! It’s unofficial, but we’re doing the most notable heartbreak scenes in modern theater. It’s gonna be awesome,” she said, pulling two slips from her jacket pocket. “It’ll be at the Balch Arena Theater. You can bring Dante or your friend. I get it if breakups aren’t the vibe you’re after right now with him.” I didn’t love the idea of bringing her to a performance centered around disconnection either, but it would be nice to spend some time together, and she’d go if I told her it was important to Dakota.

“Congrats, dude! I’ll be there.” Gary purred, pressing his paws into my side. I reached for the remote and flipped on the tv, searching for Tiny Home Nation, a favorite. Dakota got up to leave, needing to get ready for rehearsal. 

One rv-turned-vacation home later, the door opened again, and this time, she walked in. She tossed down a backpack, grabbed a tangerine off the counter, and climbed into my bed with me, eyes fixed on the renovators, explaining how a shipping container would be converted to a home for 4. “Long day?” I asked, accepting the slice she handed me. She shut her eyes, leaning her head back against the window. “No kidding…. Work has been… overwhelming, lately.” 

“So she does have a job!” I exclaimed, hoping my mock enthusiasm disguised my very genuine curiosity. “What kinda place has you working all these odd hours?” She clammed up again. “Um. I do a bit of finances, some human relations. It’s sort of hard to explain.” I bit my lip. If she’d said she was doing something like nannying, I would’ve accepted that. Finances didn’t explain the lack of a digital trail, nor the frequent disappearances. Why would a corporate job be off the books, and why would she have such odd hours? Still, she never outright lied. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be working?” She picked up the book on my nightstand, Special Topics in Calamity Physics. “What’s this one about?” I rubbed my forehead. “Quirky girl with a genius dad in a new city. Makes friends with the weird kids. Teacher turns up dead. Not sure what’s gonna happen next. 

“Anyway, I’m taking the weekend off. I… had plans this morning. Oh, and Dakota brought by tickets for a show tomorrow night, if you wanna go.” She nodded, chewing an orange slice, then handed me another. “I’ll see if I can. Will Jessie be there?” I felt a twinge of jealousy. Was my presence not good enough? Is that why she was gone all the time? Did she completely detest me? “I’d assume so, if she isn’t too busy studying.” Even Jessie liked me well enough, clearly. I thought of telling her such, but remembered my promise not to mention it. I may not be the most loyal person, yet I faithfully changed the subject. 

“Do you want to go to the grocery store with me? Mr. Gary is out of food,” I suggested. She thought it over, before saying, “Sure,” and getting up. “Let me shower real quick.” She pulled a change of clothes from her drawers, then stepped into the bathroom. As soon as she was gone, I grabbed my journal, scribbling down her ominous clues verbatim. I found my computer, then logged back in to her bank account. As usual, any incoming money was from Venmo. I knew the username since she’d sent me money before; could I figure out her password for that? I tried the ones she’d used for other accounts, but had no luck.

The backpack caught my eye. It was a plain black jansport, innocuous yet looming. No, no, I should not go rooting through her stuff. What if she caught me? Well, if I was, hypothetically, going to look around, her bedside table was closer, and out of direct line of sight from the bathroom. I could always say I was looking for a hair brush, since mine was by the sink. Okay, just a peek, it’s not like she’d notice.

The drawer held an array of boring things; chapstick, pens, a charger. I reached farther back, but it was mostly empty; we’d only been living here for a couple weeks. As I pulled my hand out, my hand brushed the top of the drawer, and I felt something square, taped on. I listened to make sure the water was still running, then peeled it off. It was a SmartMedia SD card. Hadn’t these things been discontinued years ago?

I did some online searching, and determined I’d need a PC to recover whatever was on there. Considering neither of us had one, and I didn’t want to take it outside of the apartment without a plan, I hastily put it back. 

I made a grocery list and got dressed, then texted Dante while I waited. “Hey, I had a great time earlier! Thanks again :)” I typed. My eyes stayed stuck to the screen as the response bubble appeared, but before his reply came, the bathroom door opened. She stepped out, pulling on a hoodie. “Okay, ready. How cold is it outside?” she said flatly, drying off her hair. I grabbed a scarf from the couch and tossed it to her, smiling. “Chilly. Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hndhfjkw :)


	10. Grocery Store

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aldi sucks, and Gary likes nachos.

We walked to Aldi, eager to get out of the cold. After fumbling around our pockets for quarters, I found one, then got a cart. “God, I hate Aldi,” I mumbled. “Why? It’s efficient and affordable,” she protested. I glanced at her, then sighed. “Bad memories. It’s dumb.” “No, it’s not, what happened?” she asked, as we nodded to the guards and walked in. “I don’t know. It’s not like a normal grocery store, right. I grew up out west, we had Albertsons’. It’s laid out differently. I was 18, and I’d left home, just got to the town where I was going to school.”

She pulled some tortilla chips from a box, and I ticked it off the list. “I had to pee, and it was the only store around. Couldn’t get to the bathroom without buying something, though, and was too freaked out to think about what I wanted to eat. I just left. It was so stupid, but in my car, I had my first panic attack in, like, a year. Which is, whatever, it happens, but I felt like I’d failed.” I tossed a bag of frozen corn in the cart, a bit embarrassed. She simply commented, “That’s hardly the grocery store’s fault. I like it here.” I rolled my eyes and got a box of Vanilla Bean coffee capsules. We ventured to the wall for milk.

“I get it, though. It can be scary to feel like you’re going backwards,” she said, picking up a container of queso. “I’ve always loved all grocery stores. You go in one, and everything outside doesn’t matter. No one knows who you are. There’s nothing to be done, no correct way to do it. All your past mistakes, all the times you said the wrong thing, did the wrong thing, dissolve under the fluorescent lights.” She seemed to be talking less to me and more to herself, but I nodded along in affirmation. We got into the line behind a tall man buying tomatoes. 

“I can get the next people over here!” called a cashier a moment later, beckoning us over. “Hey, how are you doing today?” I chirped. “Great, thanks, how about yourself?” the cashier replied. “Awesome, thanks! I love your necklace!” The cashier wore a thin gold chain with an opal set in the charm. “Oh, thanks! It was my aunt’s. She said it was unlucky, and was gonna throw it out, but I took it. My thoughts are, if bad things happened near it recently, what are the odds more bad things will happen?” 

I didn’t quite follow her logic, as, at least with people, the best predictor of future behavior is past actions, but maybe she had a point. We bagged up our things and headed outside. After getting my quarter back, we hurried back to the apartment.

After shedding our coats and unpacking the groceries, I preheated the oven and went rifling through the cabinets for a casserole dish. “I will craft a multifaceted dish comprised of corn that has been seasoned and bruleed for texture, organic black beans for protein, roasted peppers and corn for color and flavor, a layer of grated, aged cheddar and fresh mozzarella, and a delicate sauce du fromage for an American touch,” I announced, pulling seasoning salt from a cupboard. “So, nachos?” she deciphered, opening the can of beans. I smiled dramatically. “Precisely!” She opened a bottle of wine, poured two glasses, and slid one to me. 

She cooked the peppers and corn in a cast iron skillet while I rinsed the beans and distributed the chips. As we cooked, I turned on the TV, turning it to the 70’s music channel. Billy Joel sang his best for us as I tossed everything together and pushed the pan into the oven.

“Okay. New tradition. Once a week, we’re cooking dinner together,” I declared as we sat, perched on stools by our kitchen’s counter. She swirled her glass. “Alright. I used to do that with my dad. We made breakfast every sunday. It was nice.” She smiled in a way that suggested not much else was nice back then. 

I microwaved the cheese sauce when the timer on the oven reached 2 minutes, then finally assembled our meal. I got two of our (lavender!) plates out and distributed the nachos. We relocated to the beloved KIVIK, Mr, Gary curling between us, hoping for spare beans. I slipped him a few as she changed the channel to some cop show. 

After we finished our meal, I took the plates to the kitchen and began cleaning up. I got through the plates, and started on the casserole dish as she taunted Mr. Gary with a laser pointer. He furiously flipped about.

Suddenly, her phone rang. I watched her answer, her face hardening. She hung up just seconds later. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go. See you tomorrow, I’ll be back for Dakota’s thing,” she mumbled, grabbing her jacket off the counter and darting out the door. I sighed, finished washing the dish, locked the door, and poured myself another drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk????????? thanks for the kudos ily <3


End file.
